


Not so Tough

by hit_the_books



Series: Bitter Actions [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, First Kiss, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pining, Post-Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, Sam-Centric, Self-Loathing, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8369767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: Sam's been rescued and is back home in the Bunker with his family. So why doesn't Sam feel grateful?  Post episode coda to 12.02 Mamma Mia.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Zeryx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeryx) for being my beta on this fic.
> 
> This was written for the October 2016 round of the [Wincest Writing Challenge](http://wincestwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/). I chose "objects" and the prompt "Dead Guy Robe".

Sam didn’t know how much time had passed since he gave his mom a cup of tea and left her with John’s journal. The fan above his bed kept on spinning and he found himself unable to piece together his thoughts. His muscles were still tensed, despite Cas healing his wounds; the memories of what had happened weren’t so easily wiped away.

The Bunker felt dangerous. _Toni knows we’re here, and we haven’t redone the wards since Amara burned them off._ Alone in his room, in a home that had been violated repeatedly in the past year, Sam felt a terror he thought he’d left behind a long time ago.

Tough guy act or whatever, there was only so many times “screw you” could work. Only so many times that blocking out memories could help keep him together. Sam didn’t decide to get out of bed and leave his room. He just found himself down the hall in front of Dean’s bedroom.

The door was ajar, but the lights were off. Dean wasn’t there, but just stepping over the threshold made Sam’s shoulders relax a touch. _I still can’t believe he’s alive_. But the things he’d seen—he’d _felt_ —in that cellar left him questioning everything still. His mom being alive wasn’t making reality any easier to accept.

Switching on a lamp, Sam turned on the spot and took in Dean’s space. He suddenly felt incredibly stupid that he needed his big brother at all. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam spotted the old Men of Letters robe that Dean liked to wear. Before Sam knew what he was doing, he grabbed the robe from the back of the door and buried his face in the soft gray fabric.

The robe smelled of Dean. His favorite coconut shower gel and the sandalwood body spray that he used. A hint of gun oil, heavy among the more human smells, brought to mind Dean’s small hours habit of cleaning and maintaining his weapons. The robe smelled of safety and never being alone.

“Sam?” came Dean’s voice from beside him.

Rather than let the robe drop to the floor, Sam’s hand fell limply to his side, the robe still gripped tight in his fist. He couldn’t find the words as he stood there and stared at Dean. He’d thought those brilliant green eyes lost forever, but here they were. _This is real. I’m not alone. Dean’s alive. I’m— I’m here with Dean._

Bottom lip twitching, Sam willed happiness to come. Instead, it felt like he was sliding into a deep pit with no way out and he didn’t know how to ask for help. Fist tightening on the soft gray robe, Sam’s lip quivered as he tried to hold back a sob, but it broke through anyway and his whole body shook.

“Hey, now, Sammy,” said Dean, voice filled with honest concern. He reached out and put a hand on Sam’s left shoulder, pulled him into a hug. Sam sobbed quietly into his brother’s shirt. This close he could smell the beer on Dean’s breath. The familiarity of it grounded Sam.

Pulling away from Dean so he could see his brother’s face, Sam said, “You’re… really here.”

Dean’s right hand slid down Sam’s arm and then pressed into his left palm. Fingers squeezing the scar there on his hand. It didn’t hurt, but Sam appreciated the familiar gesture. “Yeah, I’m real.”

Suddenly, the words his mom had said when he left her with the journal started playing in a loop in Sam’s head: _“I’ve just got so much to catch up on. First tooth. First crush. Mother stuff.”_ The words “first crush” seared themselves into his brain, and Sam realized what a mistake it had been to seek Dean out at all.

Being back in the Bunker wasn’t the real issue. Being scared wasn’t the problem. The truth was.

Believing Dean had died had been a relief, of sorts. For a short time, Sam thought he was rid of the weight of hiding his feelings for his brother. Unbrotherly feelings. He’d always held back. But it was like Dean’s return from Hell all over again; like his resurrection from being killed by Metatron. For a while a weight had been lifted, and then it was bearing down on Sam again, for a _third_ time, and Sam didn’t know if he could keep holding it back.

“I should go,” said Sam, trying to pull away from Dean’s hold. There would never be a time to tell Dean, certainly not with their mother returned from the dead.

Letting him go, Dean frowned, clearly still concerned. “Look… if you…” Dean scratched the back of his head. “If you need to talk… about what happened… we can do that,” Dean stated awkwardly.

 _Yeah, talk about the pain. And the mind games_ , Sam considered coldly as “first crush” continued to spin around inside his thoughts. “I’m fine,” he said, knuckles white as he continued to grip the robe.

The look Dean gave him told Sam his brother wasn’t buying it. “Then just stay here a while. We could watch something… or…” Dean walked over to a dresser and picked up an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker and held it towards Sam. “You could share some of this with me?”

That was the last thing Sam wanted. To do anything that would let his guard down. Reason said leave and go back to his own room, but Sam was tired of listening to reason.

“What were you doing with that anyway?” Dean asked, pointing at the robe.

Seconds passed as Sam stared blankly at the gray fabric in his hand, uncomprehending. Loosening his fist, Sam turned and hung the robe on the back of Dean’s door once more. “Nothing.”

“You know we got more kicking around the place, if you want one, right?” Dean shifted two glass tumblers and then opened the bottle of whiskey. He poured generously and then closed the bottle again.

 _And none of them smell like you_. “It’s fine.” Sam eyed the filled glasses, his resolve starting to crumble.

“Here.” Dean handed Sam his glass, and then went and sat down on the end of his bed.

Sam sat down beside Dean and looked at the amber liquid in his glass. The words he’d wanted to say for so long made his tongue feel heavy in his mouth, so Sam put the glass of whiskey to his lips and drank it down in one go, enjoying how it burned his tongue and the back of his throat.

“Woah,” Dean exclaimed. “Slow down there.” But Dean didn’t follow his own advice and instead followed suit, swallowing the whiskey in one go. Getting up from the bed, Dean wandered back over to the dresser and started to pour more. He returned to the bed and Sam took his refilled glass from Dean.

Taking his time with this round, Sam sipped at the whiskey as he and Dean sat in silence. All too soon, the glass was empty and Sam’s tongue was loosened.

“Dean, I need to tell you something,” Sam started, turning to face his brother on the bed.

“Shoot.” Dean took their glasses and placed them on the floor, then met Sam’s gaze.

Swallowing hard, Sam tried to bring the words together and tell Dean the truth. His throat was filled with the lingering fire of the whiskey he’d drunk. Licking his lips, Sam noticed Dean track the movement and Sam’s breath stuttered in his chest. Still the words stuck fast.

“C’mon, what is it?” Dean prompted.

Licking his lips again, Sam noticed Dean’s gaze dip down and then flick back to Sam’s eyes. _I want you… I’ve always wanted you. Only ever you._ “I should go,” came out instead. Sam shook his head and stood.

He got two steps to the door and then Dean was beside him again, hand tightly gripping his right shoulder. “Sam, if you’ve got something to say—say it.”

 _Damnit, Dean._ Sam’s shoulders tensed and then he twisted in Dean’s grip and brought their mouths together. The kiss was gentle, warm and candid, but Sam didn’t expect Dean to kiss back. And he didn’t. Sam pulled away, shrugged free of Dean’s hand, and walked away.

As Sam walked down the hallway, his footsteps echoed in the silence. Alone again, he closed his bedroom door behind him and laid back down on his bed. His eyes rested on the fan once more and he stared up at it. He’d finally told Dean how he felt, in so much as he could, and Sam had no idea what his brother was thinking of him. Sam didn’t want to guess.

All Sam knew was that Dean wouldn’t tell their mom what had just happened. But that didn’t stop Sam feeling disgusted at himself for his own selfishness, for thinking how easy it had started to be when he thought his brother was dead. Tears gathered at the corners of Sam’s eyes and then slowly trailed down the sides of his face.

Sam rolled over onto his side, still fully dressed in his light pumpkin plaid and favorite pair of jeans. He curled up and cried silently, a sliver of him wishing he’d never left that cellar.

**Author's Note:**

> When I originally started working on this idea, it was going to be a coda and was _just_ going to be gen. Then I rewatched the second episode of season 12 and that line from Marry about firsts really struck a chord with me.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [dreamsfromthebunker](http://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/).


End file.
